Poezja

The winds blew the sand
by my wet face.
The water lapped
at my cold toes.
The flies flew by
my unseeing eyes.
The rain fell
on my pale face.
The light glints
off the knife
in my chest.
The blood pools
and soaks the sand.
The red covers my
chest and hands.
The letter flutters
in the breeze,
a testimony of my life.
The sirens blare
and the people cry.
The birds screech
so high in the sky.
The table is grey
and so very cold.
the metal is frozen
in the morgue.
The bed is warm
and snow white.
The wood is deep
like life’s blood.
The makeup coats
my frozen flesh.
The family cries
and closes their eyes.
The lid is closed
and there is silence.
The preacher speaks
of only kindness,
for the girl
that took her life
by the sea
in the night.
The jolting feeling
of being lowered.
The loud thuds
of shoveled soil.
The earthy smell
of disturbed dirt.
The sirens call
of the angels.
The golden gates
welcoming me in.
This is what happens
when I am dead.